On Our Terms
by TwoPeonies
Summary: After the tragic murder of his father, Stiles leaves Beacon Hills and the pack behind. Nearly a decade later, something brings him back. And it's exactly what he's always feared. (Stalia-centric multi-chaptered fic; plot driven, angst galore)
1. Chapter 1

Waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat is something Stiles had tried forgetting since his high school days in Beacon Hills. Since his life had been spent running away from or fighting every kind of supernatural antagonist to be borne of this world.

He sighs, throws the covers off him in one fail swoop. They land softly on the floor, invisible in the dark cast room. He shuffles to the bathroom, washes his face in the sink without turning the lights on. Those will wake him for good, and the night is still young. But sleep seems impossible now. Images flash behind his eyelids like fireworks, each one brighter and more vivid than the last. Fantasy mixed with reality, nostalgia and repressed memories coming to the forefront. Stiles rubs his face raw, but the images persist.

 _There she walks, her hair tousled by the wind, pulling him deeper into the woods. She's laughing, urging him forward, saying, "Stiles, stop freaking out. Just come." He's trying to resist, to protest, but there's no resisting her. She knows it too.  
_ _Her grip on his shirt is strong, pulling on the fabric with the force that only she would display, and it thrills him to know that she loses control over him like that. She's hot in his arms, her lips like the licks of fire, burning him with friction and cooling with the swift movements of her tongue._

Stiles gulps, his throat dry and eyes heavy. Feels angry, not at her. Never at her. But he's angry that he has to relive those memories, now almost a decade later.

 _He's throwing his clothes haphazardly into the suitcase, hangers and all. Resentment and grief burns in his throat, and he's trying not to cry.  
_ " _What are you doing?", she says firmly. He doesn't look at her.  
_ " _Stiles, stop." There's that strong grip again, holding his wrist away from another stack of shirts.  
_ " _I can't," he says.  
_ " _Yes you can, Stiles."  
_ " _No, Malia. I can't. I'm tired and I can't keep fighting." He speaks through gritted teeth, angry and raw.  
_ " _I'm not asking you to fight. I'm asking you to stay."  
_ _He looks away, gulps. "I have no one left to stay for."  
_ _Her grip loosens and she's gone._

He shuts his eyes with as much force as he can muster.

* * *

He's in the office when the day breaks, drinking his third cup of coffee. Somewhere between being 18 and 27, Adderall got replaced with caffeine. And nicotine.

"Morning, Boss." Joe says, slamming the door behind him with surprising force. "Any news from dearest Mrs. Morin?"  
Stiles clears his throat, "No, nothing."  
"Does she want more proof?" He pushes, "because I can take another HD video of her husband swapping spit in the hospital courtyard."  
"She's just dealing with the situation." Stiles says, "You know the drill."  
"I just don't know what there is to deal with." Joe says matter-of-factly. "Your husband is a cheating bastard. End of story."  
Stiles takes a deep breath. "If it weren't for cheating spouses, we'd all be out of a job."  
Joe considers, then nods his head.

The harsh reality is that private investigators rarely get assignments juicier than spousal conflicts and corporate rivalry. Not that Stiles minds. The relative stability of the job in addition to the distinctive lack of danger makes him actually enjoy the process of investigation. After all that happened, a lack of danger is refreshing.

He has to stop bringing up the past though.

"Hey Joe?" Stiles says, bringing himself out of his thoughts. His partner has been slowly falling asleep at the desk, but he springs awake. "I thought we talked about you partying before coming to work?"  
"Not to argue, but you look like you hadn't much sleep either last night."  
Stiles sighs, taking a sip of his cold coffee, thinking bitterly that he'd rather have been partying than reliving his past.

When evening crawls into existence, Stiles heads out to an assignment. He rarely does those anymore, doing more paperwork than actual work, but today he's feeling like getting his mind off things, and watching another high profile Manhattan socialite cheat on her husband might just be what the doctor prescribed.

"Lock up the office," Stiles tells Joe, who after having gone to get some last minute footage, sulks over a report. He looks up suddenly, surprised.  
"You heading out to an assignment?"  
"Yeah, feel like getting out."  
"Oh yeah?" Joe questions, suddenly interested. "What's the case?"  
"Infidelity," Stiles says.

Stiles sits in his Jeep, staring into the ornate doors of _La Parisienne_ , where according to her husband, Elle Richmond-Dennings has made a dinner reservation for two. Except she's late, and not fashionably either. Unless Stiles' skills have deteriorated in the last month and she slipped inside undetected.

" _Can you try to enjoy tonight?" she's pleading, waiting for him to get out of her car. He does so automatically, walking towards the restaurant whilst avoiding her worried gaze. It's almost strange how lifeless and grey everything seems. Even Malia, her usual fire barely lit, flickering like a candle in the wind. He reckons that his fire is out completely; if ever it had even existed.  
_ " _Happy Birthday," she says, handing him a small box. He smiles at her, opens the lid. Inside glimmers a fake Sherriff's badge. "Stiles" engraved in the middle. The restaurant suddenly grows quiet; a familiar numbness overtakes his body. Tears hit the table, hot and salty._

He takes his eyes off the door to answer a call.  
"Stilinski Private Investigation."  
"It's Richard Dennings calling. Wanted some details on the case."  
"Nothing yet to report, Mr. Dennings. I'm surveying the restaurant as we speak."  
"Listen, I've got a divorce hearing early next week. I need to present some backup."  
"I can assure you that there will be evidence." Stiles says.  
"Sooner than later, I hope."  
"I'll give you a call with an update tomorrow morning."  
"Thanks. I'll let my secretary know."

The line barely clears when a black Lincoln pulls over. Stiles sets his camera against the window, filming as Mrs. Richmond-Dennings steps out of the car with an air of refined wealth, but instead of a potential beau, another woman follows her out into the restaurant. Stiles sighs, more annoyed than disappointed. The pressure to find proof of infidelity is often too great for clients to listen to reason, especially if large sums of money and inheritance is involved. But Stiles is doing his job, and he might as well see what the fuss is about.

The women leave _La Parisienne_ barely an hour later, all smiles and a polite hug goodbye. The same black Lincoln picks up Mrs. Richmond-Dennings, and her companion watches as the car drives away. Stiles considers following, but something about the other woman intrigues him. Her high society manners contradict the distinct roughness in her features. Hair a shade of fiery red, eyes deep-set and blue. She makes a call, rushed, but not disappointed. Her brows crease as she listens, then hangs up without another word. If Stiles were closer, perhaps he'd hear the conversation, but for now, the video would satisfy his curiosity. She walks down the street from the restaurant and then around the corner, and out of sight.

"Hm," Stiles murmurs. "No adultery, yet."

 _She sneaks into his room during the night, presses herself against him and he shivers, awakens with a startle.  
_ " _Malia?" He says, voice hoarse and sleep-ridden.  
_ " _Did you expect someone else?" she whispers, cold hands sliding up his chest.  
_ _He kisses her instead of answering, and she trails her hands down his abdomen, farther down until he's quivering with anticipation. Then she stops.  
_ " _Stiles?" she murmurs, as though embarrassed.  
_ " _What's wrong?"  
_ " _Would you ever cheat on me?"  
_ _The question surprises him, and he chuckles before pulling her in for another kiss. "Never."_

* * *

Friday doesn't bring the usual feelings of recovery and escape. The sun is just barely rising above the New York cityscape when he stands on his balcony, barely big enough to fit him in it, smoking a cigarette.

His hands tremble, from the caffeine or nicotine or the dreams he's been having. Visions that have been pursuing him endlessly. Needlessly, too.

He runs a hand through his hair, shivers as the cold breeze whips across his face, skin raw from having rubbed it all night. "I should take a Valium," he thinks before his eyes unfocus again.

 _He knows something is wrong before he enters the house. The air feels heavier, and the door swings back and forth with pitiful creaks. His throat closes up at the sight of claw marks on the lock.  
_ " _He's at work." He repeats with each step down the hall. The house feels cold and dark, even darker still when he enters the bedroom. The metallic smell of blood hits his nose almost immediately. Among the stained sheets lies his dead father. He can almost pretend that he's sleeping if he looks away from his severed head._

All the Valium in the world can't erase the image from his head, so vivid and bright that Stiles hallucinates the claw marks on his own bedroom door. He closes his eyes, willing his brain to recognize the different circumstances, the time difference. "It's been eight years," he whispers. "I'm in NYC, I'm 27 years old. I work as a private investigator in my own company. I'm not possessed by the Nogitsune. I'm physically and mentally capable."

He opens his eyes, sight blurry from tears and strain, palms for his cellphone on the coffee table, calls.  
"I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Evans for later today."  
"I'm sorry, Dr. Evans is completely booked. Are you a new patient?"  
Stiles sighs. "This is important. Stiles Stilinski."  
He hears her fingers hitting the keys, hears her levelled breathing and the barely audible "hmmm" that escapes her lips.  
"Can you come in at 11?" She asks. "We might be able to squeeze you in."  
"Perfect, thanks."  
The phone lands on the couch with a quiet thud. He hadn't seen Dr. Evans in years, foolishly thought he was getting better. A relapse was certain, even if not planned.

He doesn't play music in the Jeep as he drives to the office. The traffic is bad enough even this early in the morning, and it gives him too much time to think. To relish the anger brewing deep in his belly, anger at Beacon Hills, and at Scott. If it hadn't been for him, his father would have been alive. They've sacrificed so much; he sacrificed all that he had.

The lights flicker on in the tiny office, and the sound of the coffee machine brewing a fresh batch calms Stiles enough to momentarily forget his torturous visions. His hands shake as he sips the hot liquid, scorching his mouth and oesophagus enough to blister. When an old receipt on the floor distracts him, he nearly walks into a filing cabinet. He picks up the receipt to throw it out. _Oct 26 1_ is scribbled on the back.

When Joe finally arrives at the office, Stiles had already hallucinated twice and drank nearly three cups of coffee, black.  
"Listen, " Joe says. His voice sounds dull, as though coming from a lot farther away. "I've got my sister's wedding to go to on Thursday."  
Thursday is the 25th. It was Joe's note. "When will you be back?" Stiles asks.  
"The Monday, probably."  
He nods. "Didn't know you had a sister."  
Joe frowns. "We're not really on good terms." His facial expression is strangely sour as he asks Stiles if everything's okay.  
"Just under the weather," Stiles replies, feigning normality. "Gotta pick up something for the headache."  
"Probably low blood pressure," Joe suggests.

Stiles' legs hum with pain as he drives to Dr. Evans. The receptionist greets him warmly into the overwhelmingly beige office.  
"Stiles," Dr. Evans says, looking up from the patient file he's been reading. "What's it been?" he says softly, "Five years?"  
Stiles sits down on the sofa, hands clutched in front of him. "Something like that."  
"Tell me," Dr. Evans urges him on.  
"I've been having nightmares," Stiles says. "Different than back then."  
"How so?"  
"They happen when I'm awake too,"  
"Daydreams?"  
"No, they're like visions. Sometimes I hallucinate." He says. "I feel…weak and-"  
Dr. Evans' observes him, eyes travelling from his sweaty forehead to the trembling hands. His mouth is a tight line.  
"Stiles, are you self-medicating?"  
"No," He says, too quickly.  
"Valium?" He asks. "Stiles, you know where this is going."  
"Look," Stiles says, sighing. "I don't need a lecture. I just need a prescription or something to get rid of the nightmares."  
Dr. Evans rubs the bridge of this nose in exasperation.  
"I can't sleep," Stiles says. "And I can't function."  
"I can't give you a prescription," Dr. Evan's says finally. "You're relapsing. And a pill isn't going to make it better."  
Stiles runs a hand through his hair. "Then what will?" He already knows the answer.  
"Therapy," the doctor responds. "Vigorous therapy."  
"I can't-"  
"Stiles, you have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's a lifelong illness that can only be combatted by constant effort to get better."  
"I was better," Stiles says. "I was fine for five years."  
"Lifelong, Stiles."  
He doesn't want to lose control, but he's close. "I want a normal life." He says through gritted teeth.  
"Your past won't allow it if you don't think of the future."  
"I am," Stiles argues. "I want a future where I'm not haunted by the past and all the unanswered questions."  
"Perhaps you need to revisit it, then."  
"I'm not doing hypnosis," Stiles says flatly.  
"Visit Beacon Hills," Dr. Evans says. "Have your questions answered, or at least try to."  
"How's that going to help my nightmares?"  
"It might not, but it's a start."  
Stiles gets up, his head a spinning mess of thoughts.  
"I hope to see you back sooner than in five years." The doctor says as Stiles walks out. "And don't self-medicate."  
As he walks through the glass doors of the building, his eyes bloodshot and dry, another vision floods his senses.

 _They're sitting on the hood of his Jeep, drinking beer he had stolen from the fridge – his father's.  
_ " _I can't believe we're graduating," Scott says, looking up at the sky. "So many things happened, but it feels like nothing changed at all."_

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I've been developing this story for quite some time, and am really excited to start sharing it with you all. Don't forget to review :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles wants nothing more than to refuse Dr. Evans' suggestion, and although the weekend sees minimal improvement, by Wednesday he is back to his new normal – sweating, trembling and paranoid.

With a cigarette hanging off his lip, Stiles answers his phone with a quick "Stilinski Private Investigation." He's in the middle of searching for flights to Beacon Hills, a pounding headache clouding his senses.

"This is Richard Dennings."  
"'Afternoon, Mr. Dennings."  
"I've just had the chance to review the evidence you've sent."  
"About that –"  
"I see Elle has been meeting my ex-wife," he says, tone strangely flat. "We've had a discussion. There won't be any need for further investigation, so I'm calling to close the case."  
"Mr. Dennings, the possibility of infidelity is still very much there." Stiles says, trying to sound persuasive. "One or two more surveillances might be all it takes."  
A couple of seconds go by before Mr. Dennings speaks again. "Stilinski, I appreciate what you found. Just send the bill to my office."

Before Stiles can say another word, he hangs up. Feeling rather sheepish, he puts out the cigarette and goes to make his final coffee for the night. It does nothing to ease his stress, or his headache. Brain pounding against his skull, Stiles buys an early morning flight to Beacon Hills. If this trip eases even a quarter of his suffering, then it'll be worth his effort.

He watches Joe finish his paperwork, leaving the office in a daze. "Have fun at the wedding," Stiles says.  
"Oh, right." Joe responds, clearly distracted. "Thanks!"  
He considers telling Joe about his impromptu trip out of town, but stops himself. Stiles would be back before Monday, and then he'd rather not share details of his past with someone he's known for a month.

" _I get it," she says, cradling his face in her hands. Her eyes pools of dark chocolate, boring deep into him. "If you want space, I can go."  
_ " _No," he says, lids too heavy to keep his eyes open. "Stay."  
_ _He knows she's smiling now, as she always does when he makes his feelings for her clear. His broken heart beats a little more desperately, trying to hold onto that feeling.  
_ " _You'll never be alone," she's saying. "You have the pack and-" She pauses.  
_ " _And?"  
_ " _You have me."_

His eyes come into focus again and he frowns. He doesn't have her, and she doesn't have him. Not for many years now, and probably never again. Somehow that realization sends a cold chill down his spine, as though the fact just dawned on him.

* * *

He arrives in Beacon Hills on Thursday morning, driving his rented car to a hotel. Even Stiles can't pretend that the city hasn't changed. Tall buildings scatter the downtown core, freshly built and gleaming under the rising sun. It's strange to see the city he grew up in changed, evolved. A particularly large building in its final stages of construction shines its sign aggressively at Stiles as he drives by. His eyes focus out until the sign is just a bright blue blur against the grey of the city.

" _Look Stiles, I'm really happy you're together," his dad says while chewing a bite of cold pizza. He had been late to come home again. "but please don't do anything stupid."  
_ _Stiles grins, "Stupid? Me? Never." His dad gives him an exasperated look.  
_ " _She's been through a lot with her family, so-"  
_ " _Dad, I like her." Stiles says. "I really like her. I wouldn't do anything like that."_

He considers staying in his childhood home, standing empty now for as long as he'd been gone. In his memories, the house is as it has always been, a safe haven for him after a long day of fighting monsters, physical and metaphysical. A place for recovery. In his nightmares, it's always dark, a foreshadowing of what lies behind the bedroom door. Who lies behind the bedroom door. He decides to stay in a hotel instead.

Stiles figures he'd see his father first as he stores his luggage in the wardrobe. He hides his usual investigative tools behind the sink pipes out of habit. His paranoia has been slowly creeping up on him, and he needs to take precautions. Nobody would know he's back, that much is clear. Beacon Hills isn't a small community anymore, but he wonders what would happen if they did. He wonders if Scott is still fighting against antagonistic forces. He refuses to be involved even if that were true, Stiles decides. He brought his tool pack out of habit. Nothing more, nothing else.

The Beacon Hills cemetery looks unconventionally cheery on a Thursday morning, the usually green grass covered with a blanket of red and yellow leaves. The trees stand nearly naked, branches waving in the autumn breeze. The sun shining brightly, nearly blinding him. Stiles approaches his parents' graves, gazing at the death date on his father's tombstone. He remembers it freshly carved, feels shame for not visiting since then.

"I'm sorry," he says plainly. His legs feel unstable on the leaves, hands trembling from a wave of emotions that encompasses everything from betrayal to loss. "I came back because I need closure," he says. "but I think I'm too scared to go looking for it." Admitting it is almost as bad as feeling it. "Never thought I'd be the scared one."  
He sighs, unable to hold back the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.  
"How dishonourable is it," he mumbles, "to feel pity for yourself?"  
"I've spent eight years trying to forget for my own sake, and now I'm here trying to remember." No revelation comes to him though, and he walks back to the car, his head spinning violently. He considers driving back to the airport, but parks instead in front of Beacon Hill's city center, deciding to take a walk. He reminds himself not to walk briskly, lighting a cigarette and relishing the taste of smoke on his tongue.

The building with the bright blue sign looms in the distance. _Dennings' Ventures_. "Wonder if Richard Dennings has anything to do with it," Stiles thinks as he exhales a puff of smoke. Somehow, walking makes him feel better. He watches the cigarette in his hand, relatively stable between his fingers. No longer shaking. "Perhaps Dr. Evans was right," he thinks. "Maybe being back here is somehow healing all the repressed emotions."

But his paranoia hardly lessens as his awareness goes into overdrive. "Someone's following", it warns. People hustle through the streets to work, caring little for Stiles, who is just another person to them now. Not that he's ever been anything else to anyone. He surveys the area, watching intently for any signs of disturbance. Finding none doesn't help his unease. He drives back to the hotel in a rush, going through red lights and cutting off some angry motorists. He's angry for thinking that a cemetery visit would cure him of the disease. Stiles is scared of being back, and he's scared of what he might find. Who, he might find.

It's almost midnight when Stiles goes out to the balcony for a smoke. He's had no more nightmarish visions, though his head is still spinning, eyes straining to find his lighter. The cold night air fills his lungs painfully, and he sighs as almost five attempts to light his cigarette fail.

Four things happen very quickly. First, the lights in the hotel room go out. Someone approaches him from behind and covers his mouth with their hand. They pull him inside, Stiles stumbling on the threshold of the balcony and falling hard against the floor, head rebounding painfully.  
"Shit," he hears them say under their breath. "Don't scream."  
Stiles groans, watching them squat at his side. "Don't move." Feels a hand palming at the underside of his head. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, Stiles can just almost make out the facial features.  
"Malia?" He asks, voice hoarse and nearly a whisper. He says the name, but doesn't believe it. Surely it's just another vision.  
"What the fuck are you doing here?" She asks, getting up onto her feet defensively. Stiles rubs the back of his head.  
"You're the one in my hotel room." He reminds, his brain unwilling to accept that she's real. Just another hallucination.  
"Get up," she says. "Did Scott tell you to come here?"  
"Scott?" He groans, acting as though the name is unfamiliar.  
"Yeah, Scott." She says. "Did he call you?"  
"No," Stiles says truthfully.  
She growls, annoyed. "Then why are you here?"  
There's a pause in which she takes a couple of steps towards the door, and then lights flood the room. He shields his eyes with his arm, still lying on the floor. If this this is a vision, it's a particularly realistic one.  
"Stiles," she says, approaching him again. "Why are you here?"  
He sits up, looks at her with his eyes barely open, still sensitive to the light. But it's enough to realize she's real. Malia's face is twisted into an expression of concern boarding on extreme anger when she asks him again.  
"I don't know," he tells her, opening his eyes enough to see her fully. She sighs, rubbing her forehead.  
"Look, we don't need your help."  
Stiles can barely hear her, his attention focused on the round brown pools of her eyes, the creases of frustration in her forehead, the way she's biting her lip, teeth white and strong and mouth wet.  
"What's wrong?" She asks, concern betraying her angry countenance.  
"Nothing," he says. "I just- nothing."  
She frowns, gets up. "Go back home, Stiles. The Scooby Doo gang isn't getting back together."  
"What are you talking about?" He asks in an effort to engage her.  
"I saw you loitering around _Dennings Ventures_ today, in broad daylight. I'd have thought those eight years as a PI would have taught you something." Her voice is full of venom. "Just go back home, before you make things worse."  
She slams the door behind her as she leaves. It takes him a very long time to get back up fully and accept that he's just been attacked by Malia Tate.

It feels like a vision, no matter how much Stiles convinces himself that it's real. Visions don't leave you with sore bruises on your head, nor do they leave signs of forced entry on the door. Her face, scrunched up in anger, hovers in front of his eyelids for what feels like hours. It's almost surreal to think that such a long time has passed; Malia is just like he remembers her. Fearsome, growling, yet somehow protective and quick to jump to conclusions. Eyes wide and that same shade of chocolate brown, nostrils flaring, lips full and plush even when she's spitting venom.  
"Fuck," he whispers to himself, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wipe away the image from his mind. His relapse has him completely unstable, stirring emotions and awaking feelings from the past, each one hitting him painfully in the chest, knocking out air. He tries not to think about the implications.

Not even when he's vomiting in the hotel room toilet, his insides twisting uncomfortably and sending bolts of pain down his spine. Not even when he's wondering what Malia meant when she asked whether Scott asked him to come. What she meant about not needing his help. And what _Dennings Ventures_ had to do with it.

* * *

His sleep is uneasy, but better than any he's had recently. Perhaps it's the relative state of wakefulness the next day that brings about curiosity. He heads back to _Dennings Ventures_ just after noon, pleased that lunch hour has the place relatively empty of prying eyes. He walks around casually, just turning to the back of the building when a car pulls up. Hiding behind a particularly large shrub, Stiles sees a man exit the passenger's seat. Stalky build, dark brown hair, looks around 40. He waits for something or someone, looking around the surrounding area with suspicion. The back door of the building opens, and out comes a man in his late 20s, tall and lanky, with a characteristic widow's peak.  
"Joe?" Stiles blurts out under his breath. It takes everything in him not to curse aloud, not to storm the scene. "Lying bag of dicks."  
Despite the lack of trust in his own sight, he watches the men unload three large wooden crates from the car's trunk, hauling them through the door and down the stairs. The crates barely fit through the entrance, clearly not created for public access. Stiles' anger rises to extreme heights. Though he has yet to see any evidence of wrong-doing, his mind jumps to conclusions. Is Joe in the mafia? He is Italian and he's been clearly lying to him. This would explain why he's always tired, always acting secretive. "No," Stiles warns himself. "It's too early."  
Giving Joe a chance at redemption, Stiles decides to make a quick call.  
"Stiles?"  
"Hi Joe," Stiles says, acting uncharacteristically peppy. "How's the wedding?"  
"Er," Joe stumbles. "It's great. What's up?"  
"Oh just wandering if you know where the Mrs. Morin's case file is. I can't seem to find it anywhere."  
"I'm not sure," Joe says, his voice echoing in what certainly sounds like a basement. There's a moment of complete silence, and Joe speaks again. "Are you feeling any better?"  
"Yeah, actually." Stiles says, not lying. "It was the low blood pressure, I think."  
There's another moment before Joe speaks again. "Good to hear. Alright, need to get back to the wedding. See you Monday."  
Feeling a mixture of betrayal and extreme confusion, Stiles remains behind the shrub until the two men emerge. They engage in what looks like an angry conversation, with Joe acting defensively and the other man sighing disapprovingly. Stiles assumes the conversation is about him, and it's not until they drive away that he remembers the scrap receipt on the office floor – _Oct 26 1_

With everything making little to no sense, Stiles' mind goes into overdrive. Conspiracy theories and murder plots flood his brain. His constant nausea makes it a difficult drive to the hotel, and the U-turn he makes because of a sudden change of heart nearly has him chucking up his breakfast. But none of that compares to the downright terror he feels when he pulls into Malia's driveway, wondering if she even lives here, and how she's going to react to him coming here. But he needs answers.

The parked truck in the driveway looks like it might belong to her father, covered in rust and dirt. He kills as much time as he possibly can, mustering up as much courage as possible before walking to the front door on two shaky legs and ringing the bell.  
When she answers the door, he can't discern if her expression is that of surprise, or murderous rage. She drags him inside instantaneously, locking the door behind her and slumping against it.  
"What the fuck are you doing?" She says, her tone a subdued yell. It's exactly as Stiles suspected. He sighs, tries a tight-lipped smile.  
"We need to talk."  
"We," she says, gesticulating to both of them, "don't need to do anything."  
He opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly forgets what he could even say.  
"What makes you think you can just barge into my house like that?"  
"Technically, I just rang the bell." He retorts. "You're the one who dragged me inside."  
The way her teeth elongate and protrude is unnerving. Her eyes shine bright blue and it takes her just over a minute to return to normalcy.  
"You need to leave," she says, accentuating every word. "I can't believe Scott thought this was a good idea. What a fucking mess."  
"I'll leave," Stiles says. "But first, tell me what the fuck is going on?"  
Malia rolls her eyes, "Save your investigative tricks for someone else."  
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "Malia,"  
He could swear she inhales sharply as he says her name. "I swear I have no idea what you're talking about."  
Her wide eyes become thin slits, and she chews on her lip before speaking again. "Why did you come back? Tell the truth."

 **A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter! I'm so glad the story is enjoyable so far, and I hope it continues down that path. Let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

He's inside Malia Tate's house, talking to her for the second time since he stormed out of her life over eight years ago. Angry doesn't even begin to describe her mood at seeing him, even now, nearly ten minutes after initial contact.  
"Can I sit down?" He asks, "It's a long story." His legs are still shaking, from fear or coffee withdrawal, he can't tell.  
"I didn't ask you to tell me about the past eight years," she says bitterly. "Just why you came back."  
The comment is nearly enough to make him feel guilty.  
"I came back because my therapist suggested it," he says, avoiding her gaze.  
"Your therapist told you to come here?"  
"Er, yeah."  
"Why?"  
"To get closure."  
The look on her face is incredulous. "Closure, really. I'd have thought you didn't need it after that long."  
He frowns. "If you're going to belittle every thing I say then-"  
"Don't forget that you're the one who stormed here demanding we talk." She retorts. "So talk."  
Stiles sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. His nausea is coming back now, and he's craving a coffee or a cigarette, or _something_.  
"Last month I started getting nightmares," he says. "About what the pack used to do. About, well, my father." _About you_ , he wants to say.  
Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, her expression not giving anything away.  
"I've been feeling really sick and-"  
She tries to avoid rolling her eyes, that much he can tell. "Look, we all go through that on the daily."  
"I haven't for nearly five years," he says.  
"Well aren't you so fortunate." Malia snorts.  
He ignores her. "My therapist said the relapse is due to the fact that I haven't dealt with the past properly."  
"Oh," she says. "So you've come here to do the whole forgive and forget spiel. Force the demons out."  
"No-"  
"Look," she says, her brown eyes dark like the pits of hell. "I'm sorry about the Sherriff. I really am. But you can't barge in here, into my life again, and expect me to…to-"  
"I didn't come here to barge into your life," he says. "I don't want your pity, or your forgiveness."  
"Then why are you here?"  
"Because you attacked me in my hotel room last night," Stiles says, holding her gaze, "And I have my suspicions about something."

Malia sighs, walks towards the living room and draws the blinds. "Sit down," she says. She looks tired, worn out, and he feels like a child in the principal's office. A 27 year old man admitting to having nightmares for which he needs therapy. It's almost embarrassing.  
"Why would you think that Scott told me to come back?" He asks.  
"That's irrelevant," She says.  
"Is something going on?"  
She pauses as though considering whether to lie to tell the truth. "It's Beacon Hills. Something is always going on."  
 _The truth_. His stomach flips uncomfortably.  
"What is it?"  
Malia groans. "I'm not telling you anything. Don't want you to have another nightmare."  
"What does _Dennings Ventures_ have to do with it?" He says, tired of their pointless back and forth. "And who is Joseph Mensutti?"  
She furrows her brows, eyes wide. "How do you know about that scum?"  
"Joe? Er, Joseph?"  
She nods.  
"I hired him a month ago," he says, trying to sound casual. "He's my photographer."  
"Shit," she says, getting off the couch with the speed of light. "Shit," she repeats, reaching for something behind a bookcase. A cellphone that looks like it came from a different century.  
"What's going on?" Stiles asks, but she ignores him, dialling and then talking briskly.  
"You need to come by the old place," she says. "They know."  
Stiles repeats his question when she hangs up, but Malia is almost too distracted to notice that he's still sitting on her couch. It's only when he grabs her by the shoulders that she stops fidgeting and looks at him.  
"This is really bad." She says. "You fucked everything up."  
Angers flares in his chest and he struggles not to let it out on her now.  
"Look, you can't make me responsible for something I don't even know is happening." Stiles says, holding back.  
She bites her lip. "How do you know that Mensutti is involved?"  
"I saw him unloading something with another man behind _Dennings Ventures_. He lied to me about going to his sisters' wedding."  
Malia looks away. The degree of her discomfort at his presence is obvious, and it stings. He didn't expect her to rejoice at his return. Hell, he didn't even plan to return, never mind to see her in flesh again. But seeing the discord in her eyes is almost physically painful. Especially since he remembers so many other things in those eyes, and if he digs deep enough, it feels as though it was only yesterday. Holding her hand as they walk through the street, her grip so much stronger than his, hair blowing in the autumn wind, face flushed, eyes bright and crinkled as she breaks into a laugh over something he says.

She's not laughing anymore.

* * *

The mystery of whom Malia was calling is solved when a dishevelled Scott McCall enters through the back door of the house.  
"Didn't see anyone?" Malia asks, but Scott doesn't answer. He's just seen Stiles, and his face expression is somewhere between wonder and disappointment.  
"Wow," he says. "Eight years."  
Stiles gives him a tight-lipped smile. "Sorry it's not under better circumstances."  
Scott frowns, "I tried getting in touch last summer," he says. "For the wedding."  
"Wedding?"  
"Kira and I-"  
Malia growls, "This is not the time for a heart-felt reunion."  
"I haven't seen him in years." Scott says, annoyed.  
"And you wouldn't have had for many more if he didn't start having nightmares." She says, her voice oozing resentment. There's an awkward pause, and Scott's lips tighten as though he knows something he's not willing to share.

It's strange seeing Scott again. His usual wide stance and kind eyes, rubbing his forehead as though he's making a tough decision. As though he's not sure whether to believe Malia, whether to accept Stiles' presence back in Beacon Hills. Those eight years have worn him down somewhat, and Stiles wonders just how many antagonists he's fought since Stiles has been gone. Since he left. Then there's Kira, of course. Some things truly don't change.

"They know," Malia whispers to Scott, bringing Stiles out of his head. "They fucking know about us."  
"How?" Scott says, then lowers his voice considerably. "We haven't even gotten everyone together."  
Malia frowns, pointing to Stiles. "They sent Mensutti to spy on him."  
Scott's eyes widen two-fold. He's silent for a moment, as though in disbelief. "Explains why we haven't seen much of him."  
Malia nods.  
"But why him?" He says. "He's the least likely to get in on it. It doesn't make any sense."  
"Doesn't make sense?" Malia repeats. "Really? I think it's pretty obvious that he's the first one you'd contact to get the pack back together." There's a moment of silence, and she whispers. "Pathetic."  
"Malia," Scott warns, giving her a look of reproach. "We need to stick together now. It's been long enough."  
"I'm out." She says immediately, eyes turning a shade darker. "If you're going to let him back in, I'm out."

Scott sighs in exasperation, dragging her away by the upper arm. Though he lowers his voice, Stiles can still hear the majority of what he says. "So you're just going to let those people die? It's not going to stop, whether Stiles is here or back in NYC. You know that."  
Malia's eyes travel towards Stiles and she frowns. "I don't think it's reasonable for someone who has abandoned the pack to be allowed back in."  
"You know the circumstances," Scott says gravely.  
She avoids his gaze, picks at her cuticles.  
"Not to interrupt," Stiles says finally. "But is anyone going to fill me in on what's going on?" Bile is rising up his throat now, and he swallows it back down. He's not sure whether the pure idiocy of this conversation is making him sick, or if the nightmares are coming back, just as Malia had insinuated.  
"Right," Scott says distractingly. "We've been noticing something strange in the past couple of years. Lots of werewolves and other supernaturals have been getting more aggressive, I should say. Aggressive and self-destructive." His eyes flicker towards Malia for a split second. "People have started noticing something awry, and then well, we discovered that everyone's hopped up on some new drug."  
"I thought werewolves couldn't get high?" Stiles says, frowning.  
"This drug is targeted towards werewolves."  
"Okay,"  
"It's called PEZ." Scott continues. "Very big in the party scene, looks like the candy. Well, at first we didn't give it too much thought, but then lots of people were overdosing. Killing each other. Killing themselves."  
Stiles nods.  
"That's when, uh, that's when we started following the trail. Wanted to know who the manufacturer is. And we found them in Beacon Hills, of course."  
"Ever heard of _Bergoff Drugs_?" Malia says, suddenly back to her fiery self. "They're manufacturing this shit and distributing it all over the place. At first we thought it was only Beacon Hills, but Lydia is seeing it pop up in the LA party scene too."  
"So what does that have to do with _Dennings Ventures_?" Stiles asks, his interest piqued.  
"Richard Dennings is allowing _Bergoff Drugs_ to set up headquarters in his commercial building."  
"Does he know?" Stiles asks, wondering whether he should mention his own experience with the man.  
"No way of knowing yet. We only know the CEO, David Wahlberg, and his henchman, Joseph Mensutti." Scott says. "The fact that they sent him to spy on you is an extremely bad sign."  
"I told you it was a bad idea," Malia says. "They're onto us, and god knows we don't need another tragedy on our hands."  
"Calm down," Scott says. "Mensutti couldn't have found anything if Stiles wasn't even aware of the investigation."  
"No thanks to you," she retorts. "Now, he just needs to head back to NYC and act like nothing happened. If Mensutti doesn't find anything soon, they'll likely bring him back. He's the distributor-"  
"You want me to go back and continue working with the psycho?" Stiles says through gritted teeth.  
"Oh I'm sorry," Malia responds. "I forgot. You need to get closure first."  
"It's not about closure," he says, angry. "You can't bring me in onto something like that and expect me to just forget about it."  
"That's exactly what I expect." She says, her voice strained. "What did you think was gonna happen? We join forces and triumph over evil?" She laughs, sarcasm dripping with every syllable.  
"I want to help," he says earnestly.  
Scott frowns. "Malia is right. It's better to feign ignorance. At least for now."  
"Forever." Malia says. "No offense, Stiles, but you're in no shape to deal with this, what with your job consisting of spying on people's sex-lives for eight years."  
Stiles grimaces. "Since you know so much about my life, I wonder if you're not the one Mensutti reports to."

A loud growl leaves her lips before she lunges at him, throwing him off the couch and against the floor. The impact is enough to send the bile he worked so hard to keep at bay from spilling out of his mouth. He's retching; dry heaving on the floor, his sight coming in and out of focus until he's enveloped in complete darkness.

* * *

Stiles wakes up sometime later, lying tucked in on the bed he recognizes as Mr. Tate's. In Mr. Tate's bedroom. His body feels sore, insides squirming from the retching, throat burning from the bile. Why would he volunteer to help Scott when this is exactly what he's been running away from all these years? He has nothing left to give, except maybe his own life. Somehow, in this state, death feels almost desirable. After this demonstration of weakness however, he doubts he'll ever have the choice.  
"Are you sure?" Malia says from behind his door, her voice barely a whisper. "It doesn't change anything."  
"He's going through withdrawal, you heard what Lydia said. If he comes back, he'll get poisoned again-"  
"We'll just tell him what to look out for. Staying here is only going to make it worse. We're not ready."  
"You've been there, you know what it does." Scott says persuasively.  
"It's not the same," she whispers. "It wasn't the same for me."  
"It's much worse for him."  
She sighs.

Stiles pretends he's sleeping when Malia and Scott enter the room. He thinks it's almost ironic how quiet she's being, since she's the one who got him in this position in the first place. Even so, he finds it hard to feel angry with her.

Scott grabs his hand and he feels the once-familiar feeling of having your pain sucked out of your body. He hears Malia say, "Save your strength." She swats Scott's hand away and he lets out an annoyed sigh. The pain returns slowly, and then her hand replaces Scott's. "I'll do it. I want him to wake up quicker." He pretends to be asleep for a little longer, only to annoy her. At least that's what he tells himself. He wouldn't dare imply that he likes the feel of her hand on his, the pretence of caring.  
"Wake up," she says finally, impatiently. Her voice is strained from having to endure his pain, and she's finished with her little attempt at being compassionate. "Stiles, wake up."  
He cracks his lids open, not that it makes any difference. The room is dark.  
"What?" He says.  
"How are you feeling?" Malia asks, clearly edged on by Scott. It's funny that she asks, having felt his pain only a couple of seconds ago. He doesn't answer. "Look, uh, you're going through withdrawal."  
"I'm always going through withdrawal." Stiles says, his tone flat.  
She sighs. "You're going through PEZ withdrawal."  
"That's news. I thought it was made for werewolves." He says.  
"It is, but-"  
"It affects humans too." Scott interrupts. "Not to the same extent, but it might explain the nightmares you've been having. The hallucinations. The fact that you're feeling so weak."  
"Right," Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. His shoulder is sore from impact. Somehow the news that he's been drugged don't surprise him nearly as much as they should. Has he become accustomed to trouble finding him? Or has being back in Beacon Hills brought him back to the days of meddling and constant danger. "I'm guessing Joe's been spiking my coffee. The visions started almost as soon as I hired him. By recommendation from a friend, of course. " He snorts.

A phone vibrates somewhere in the room, and Scott answers, lighting his face with its brightness.  
"Careful," Malia says. "I don't want anyone to know we're here."  
Scott nods. "Okay Kira, I'm coming." His voice is tinged with concern, and when the brightness of the cellphone goes out, he says. "Kira's not feeling well."  
Malia straightens up, but before Stiles can ask what's wrong Scott speaks again.  
"Just false contractions," he says. "I should go."  
"Kira's pregnant?" Stiles says, the question coming out more shocked than he wanted.  
"Yeah-"  
"Scott," Malia warns. He looks at her with an expression of fatigue and unwillingness to argue.  
"I'll be in touch." He says to Malia. "Don't strain yourself," he says, looking at Stiles, then leaves the room. Stiles can hear the back door open and close softly.  
"Kira's pregnant?" he asks again.  
Malia snorts. "What, do you think only you have the right to move on with your life?"  
"I didn't say that," he answers. "And anyways, I've hardly moved on."  
"You sure about that?" She says. "Eight years is a very long time."  
"Not enough to stop psychos drugging me left and right."  
Malia rolls her eyes, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't speak for a long time. Doesn't move from the corner of the bed. He watches her eyes shifting from the window to the door, back to him. She's paranoid.  
"Do you still live here?" He asks finally.  
"No," she says. "No I haven't lived here for almost three years."  
"Why?" That's all he can muster to ask. There's so many questions he needs answered, so many years unaccounted for.  
"You need to leave in the morning," she says simply.  
"I can't," he says, struggling to sit up. "I refuse to." He's not safe anywhere now, and his investigative bone is aching to find out more. Another part of him can't leave now that he's seen her.  
"You're weak," she says. "He's been giving you very high doses. It's a wonder you're still-"  
"Alive?" he finishes.  
She stirs. "Even if you were fine, Stiles, you don't belong here anymore."

There's something strange in her voice, nostalgia or sadness or the desire for things to be different. It bothers him the way she speaks about him as though he's only a figment of her past. As though nothing he can do will change that. Stiles sits up, his insides protesting at the sudden movement by sending bolts of sharp pain through every nerve. Grabs her shoulders, moves his hands to cup her face before she can react by throwing him against the wall or the floor again. There's a strange moment of anticipation. She looks up into his eyes, and he can see that she's scared. He's scared too, but he presses his lips against hers anyways. His body moves on its own volition, as though controlled by something other than his brain, screaming in protest. Waits for her to respond, to kiss him back, savouring the taste of her lips, so foreign now. She never does however, and he pulls away finally, confusion mixing with shame.

"Then why do I feel like I belong?" He asks sadly.

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm releasing this chapter on my birthday, so leave me a review if you enjoyed the chapter and the story so far! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles waits for her reaction, braces his body for impact, but it doesn't come. She gets off the bed calmly.  
"You need to leave in the morning." She says.  
"That's it?" He says. "That's all you're going to say to me?"  
She sighs. "What do you want, Stiles?"  
"To acknowledge that, that maybe you still feel something for me." He doesn't even know if that's the truth, but he wants to edge her on, get her angry. Stiles is ashamed for acting irrationally, for making it so clear he's not over it. He's not over _her_. And he didn't even know about it before he made that fateful move. The fateful blunder.  
"I don't need to acknowledge anything," Her voice is tight. "You need to realize that you can't come back here when things get tough and expect me to pick up the slack."  
"That's not-"  
"Then where were you when I needed you?" She's volatile now, barely controlling the shift. "Where were you when I was using? Where were you when my dad got murdered? Where were you all the other times I had to deal with the fact that you ran away? From the pack. From _me_."  
Her breathing is rugged, elongated teeth glowing in the darkness. She's clutching the wall, her claws digging into the plaster, emitting a shrill noise.  
"I didn't know." Is all he can say, and she laughs. It's a desperate laugh.  
"Yeah well, it doesn't matter anymore."  
"It matters."  
"Don't be stupid." She pulls her claws out of the wall, takes a deep breath and leaves the room, shutting the door without a grand slam. The silence that follows is enough to drive him over the edge of sanity. Stiles feels foolish, stupid. He had convinced himself into thinking that Malia was stronger than him, that she was fine. There was the pack, and Scott. She'd move on without him, be much happier really. He was nothing but a dark cloud of despair, sucking the happiness out of her back then. Even after they caught the Alpha who did it. But he was wrong. The thought made his body shake with self-hatred. He had left her to fend for herself, and perhaps she'd never forgive him now. He didn't deserve forgiveness anyways.

His sleep is disturbed by memories, this time tinged with a healthy dose of guilt.

He gets out of bed in the morning, feeling better but not exactly well. Shuffles out of the bedroom though, glancing quickly at the claw marks that Malia had left last night. He finds her in the kitchen, leaning over the counter, her body supported by strong forearms. She sighs, feeling his presence.  
"Your flight is in three hours," she says after he'd been staring at her for well over a minute. "I made some eggs. Eat quickly and we'll go."  
He frowns, but says nothing. She's set on sending him away, and he can't really argue with that logic. He's been nothing but an inconvenience since he's appeared in Beacon Hills. The least he can do is get out of her life as abruptly as he entered it.

The eggs are cold, and they land painfully in the pit of his stomach. Stiles watches Malia in his peripheral vision. She's on her laptop, brows furrowed in concentration. Eyes bloodshot and surrounded by sallow skin. He's ashamed to think that she'd probably been crying all night. A phone on the dining room table vibrates suddenly, and Malia scowls before getting up to reach it. She gives him a reproachful look as his gaze falls on the caller ID. _Robert_. She leaves the kitchen before answering. Perhaps he had misjudged how much she hadn't moved on. What's another wrong assumption to add to the list? Just because Stiles had never, truly…well at least he'll feel less guilty.

He doesn't bother trying to listen in the conversation, not that he could if he tried. It's obvious Malia had gone to the furthest room in the house to talk. When she comes back, she swings the door so forcefully that it bounces against the wall. She mutters a curse under her breath, sighs.

"I've got to go," she says. "Can you find your way to the airport?"  
Stiles nods. "The rental car is still in the driveway."  
"Way to be inconspicuous."  
"I didn't know anything when I came here." Stiles reminds her and she acts as though it's not a good enough reason.  
"Where are you going?" He tries, keeping the question casual.  
Tying her hair in a ponytail, she smacks her lips. "Don't worry about it."  
Almost as an afterthought, she says, "The ticket is on the nightstand. In the bedroom."  
Stiles nods, "How should I transfer the money-"  
She huffs. "Save yourself the trouble."

Stiles leaves the house barely fifteen minutes after Malia, climbing into the driver's seat of the car with more difficulty than he'd like to admit. But he's doing what he's told, trying not to focus on the fact that Malia is with someone. Or on the fact that he's bothered by it. Or the fact that he's got no right to be. He distracts himself with the music on the radio as he drives back to the hotel to pick up his things. It's Saturday, and the roads are refreshingly free of traffic.

But a sudden impulse clouds his mind, and he swerves off the main road. There are so many questions unanswered and it's clear that Malia is in no state to answer them herself. So who else could do it for him? Scott.

He drives to his childhood home, fully aware that the chances he lives there are slim. Stiles has decided that he needs to know everything, even if he's to leave Beacon Hills and never return again. But he needs to know.

His rapping on the door is answered not by Scott however, but by a very pregnant Kira.

"Stiles?" she says, her expression questionably not surprised. "What are you doing here?"  
"I need to talk," he says calmly.  
Kira isn't too ecstatic to let him into the house, but she does anyways.  
"Scott isn't here," she says. "I'm staying with Melissa until well," she points to her belly.  
"I didn't know." Stiles says. "Congratulations. On the marriage and on the baby."  
"Thanks," Kira says. There's a strange tightness in her voice. She leads him into the living room, looking so much different than he remembers, but somehow still the same.  
"Water, tea, coffee?" Kira offers.  
"No," Stiles says. "Just some information."  
Kira sits down with difficulty. "Scott warned me that you might make an appearance."  
"He told you I'm back in Beacon Hills?"  
"Last night," she says. "Didn't want to of course, because I'm in no shape to be involved with the investigation. At the moment, anyways." She looks out the window in thought.  
"Scott has been planning on getting the pack back together then?"  
Kira nods. "For nearly a year now."  
"So why hasn't he contacted me?"  
She sighs. "It's been difficult enough trying not to raise suspicions."  
"But Lydia and Parrish know, and Malia and you-"  
"Yes," she says.  
"What about Liam?"  
"Liam moved away when he went to college and he's been gone since. We didn't want to tear him away from his new life-"  
"Why didn't Scott contact me then?" He asks again.  
"Because Malia didn't want him to."  
Stiles grimaces. "Oh so because Malia didn't want me, Scott just decided to leave me completely out of it."  
Kira nods. "Yeah."  
Stiles takes a deep breath. "Don't you see how unfair that is?"  
She frowns. "I agreed with Malia. I didn't think it was necessary to bring you back. But Scott has always had a soft spot for you, even-"  
"So if I hadn't barged in here myself, I would have died from the shit Mensutti was spiking me with and none of you would have given a single crap."  
Kira is angry now, though not surprised at his outburst. He feels guilty for provoking her. It's not fair to blame her, but he can't help himself.  
"We didn't know they planted him in your business." Kira says. "We didn't think you'd want to join, and we thought you'd be safer away from this one."  
"Oh safer-"  
"Don't forget," Kira says, interrupting his outburst. "You're the one who left Beacon Hills and the pack all those years ago. You're the one who didn't want to be a part of the constant danger, and we wanted to respect that decision."  
Stiles is silent.  
"It wasn't easy for anyone." She continues. "Especially Scott. He's always wanted you to come back."  
There's a long pause.  
"I'm sorry," he says. "I've just had a hard time wrapping my head around everything that has happened the past month."  
Kira sighs. "We all care, Stiles. And the choices we made and make are a reflection of that."  
He looks away, tries not to show his ashamed expression. "I just wish things were different. I wish Malia didn't hate me. Though I'm the one at fault for that."  
"Malia doesn't hate you, Stiles." Kira says simply. "I don't think she could ever hate you."  
"She can barely look me in the eye." He says.  
Kira groans. "How would you prefer she look at you after everything that she's gone though?"  
Stiles gulps, looks blankly at the floor.  
"When you left, she spent months on end in the woods, refusing to shift to human no matter how much we tried. We thought she had gone mad. We lost contact with her for nearly two years then."  
"Two years?"  
"I thought she'd gone after you, but turns out she was living on the edge. _Right on the edge_. Eventually she came to herself enough to stay human. Returned to Beacon Hills even."  
His throat has gone dry, his heart beating hopelessly against his chest.  
"Everything calmed down for a little, as much as they could have back then."  
"She said," Stiles tries. "She said her father was murdered."  
"That was the final blow, we think." Kira says gravely. "We had some dealings with a rogue Alpha and Malia took the crux of it. He killed her father in return."  
"Who's the Alpha?"  
Kira rubs her eyes. "It doesn't matter because he was hired by Peter. Got him back into Eichen House, but it wasn't long before he was on the run again."  
Stiles feels rage filling his body, inch by inch. Hatred for Peter, for the pack for not protecting her. For himself, most of all.  
"She couldn't really handle it," Kira says. "And she left for another long while. When we found her, she was barely holding on."  
"Why didn't you help her?" He says, angry tears clinging onto his tear ducts, threatening to spill out at any moment.  
"We tried, Stiles." She says, rubbing her eyes. "But she didn't want to be found, and she didn't want to be helped. She was,"  
Kira looks doubtful on whether she should continue. "I'm not sure Malia would appreciate me telling you this."  
"Please," Stiles mutters.  
"I hope you don't do anything stupid or rash with the information."  
"No, I just I- I need to know."  
"She was going through an addiction." Kira says finally. "We had heard some rumours about a party drug that was effective on werewolves, and now we saw the extent of its effectiveness." She pauses. "It took her over six months to feel better. She'd been on it for nearly that entire year."  
The silence that follows is enough to drive Stiles' mad.  
"It's all my fault." He manages to whisper, voice hoarse.  
Kira sighs, ignores him. "Malia brought our attention to the drug, and we've been trying to investigate its origins. Many other supernaturals have died, but our progress has been too insignificant to account for anything."  
"I should have been here," he says. "This wouldn't have happened."  
Kira tries hard not to roll her eyes. "I highly doubt an entire drug ring operation would disband if you never left."  
"No," Stiles says. "No, but Malia wouldn't have-"  
"Stop." She warns. "There's no point in putting all the blame on yourself."  
He finds that hard to believe.  
"Malia is finding it hard to forgive you for leaving the pack, but she doesn't hate you."  
"She should." Stiles whispers.  
Kira shrugs. "That's up to you two to decide. But I believe that Malia hurts so much because of _other_ feelings." She looks out the window, where the red and yellow leaves dance in the autumn wind, swirling with colour and producing a strange feeling of sadness over the house.  
When Stiles speaks again, it's with hard confidence. "Kira, I want to help with the investigation." Kira's eyes travel back to his face, and she signs.  
"You don't understand," he says again. "I need to help."  
"Stiles-"  
"I can't abandon the pack again."  
"I don't think you have much choice in the matter this time around," Kira says simply.

* * *

Stiles drives back to his hotel, thoughts spiralling in his head so quickly he's disoriented. It stings to know that nobody but Scott even wants him back, but then, he can't really blame them. Especially Malia. His body shivers convulsively every time he thinks about her, and he wonders how he ever survived nearly a decade without her. _Survived better than she did_ , an angry voice inside his head sneers. He gulps, pulling up into the hotel parking lot.

Perhaps he wouldn't try convincing the pack to return. They'd only seen him as a victim of circumstances up until this point, and they're unlikely to accept him as anything else. But he has something to bring to the table. He'll fly back to NYC like Malia wants him to. He'll spy on Joe Mensutti, figure out whom he's reporting to. After all, Joe hadn't been careful. He'd underestimated him, and Stiles is tired of being underestimated.

Stiles unlocks the room, eyes finding the claw marks still clear against the dark wood of the door. His stomach lurches. He wants to climb under the hot, steaming water of the hotel shower, order some room service and then be off to the airport and onto Phase 2. As he removes his clothes, he tries not to dwell on the variety of scrapes and bruises that have bloomed on his torso. Yellow, red and purple. Like the leaves slowly drifting in the wind outside. Stiles leaves the shower feeling more confident in his decision than ever. The fog in his mind has lifted, and as he pulls on a fresh pair of jeans, white t-shirt and plaid shirt, he feels almost invincible.

"Phone, wallet, carry-on." Stiles says, listing off his possessions. He had just booked a return flight and he's not planning to waste any time now. He'd eat later.  
"Tools!" He exclaims, bending under the sink to retrieve his investigative gear. Thousands of dollars worth of technology, and he would have forgotten all about it in his state of brain overdrive.

There's a strange sense of foreboding as he boards the plane, a singular thought running through his mind. _I might never be back here again._

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! I know it seems like everyone is ganging up on Stiles, but I promise that's not for much longer. It's December, which means lots of travelling for me. But I promise I will try to squeeze in as much writing as I can during that time. Let me know how you like the chapter, and the last season of Teen Wolf! Can't believe it's been this long! :D**


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